We will receive unsolicited poems at the great request of you to print them. Unfortunately for us and the non-writers, one in a thousand can hardly be said about what it is impossible to say fairly: what the writer has done wrong. It's our duty, of course, to reconsider all of this inextricably intertwined utterances, which are like unquenchable dragonflies for both the ear and the heart. We read and regret, - for what we lost time and for what we spent, we tasted the mood. We still have hope when we are unwilling but willing to do the work that is necessary for us. We think we will meet one in a thousand good and salty rasme, and if this rare, very rare fate befalls us, we will gladly go hand in hand, like an orphan pearl found in an inescapable verse. Then we too enjoy and rejoice, and we delight and delight our readers.
We say that this fate rarely visits us. You often read the whole stack of paper and you will not find a single line, warmed by the "divine fire". Sananuri alone this is not the time lost in our re-reading: folks it is our duty, albeit very unpleasant and annoying, but still a duty. And the surprise is, - the writer to go beyond, to waste time, spend paper, ink, while not instructed by anyone? An idle man, of course, is not accustomed to obscene activities, it is better to sit badly and work badly, it is said. We do not regret the man's time, nor Jaffa, because neither of them is useful to him, nor the other, let again the words in the poems be cut to the delight of the month and to the annoyance of the editor. And the sad and regrettable thing is that almost helpless lads are overwhelmed by this, who still have a heavy duty of learning ahead of them and, therefore, time and effort has its payoff for them.
The day will not pass - do not come to the poem and do not write "student of this and this school". Our word today is to address this; I am afraid that our words will not be accepted by some of our benefactors as if we want to suppress and disappoint them. God forbid!… Joy is a good commodity, even when it is hoped to reach the height of the object on which it is directed. Until a man acquires the power of this, do not think of becoming something with empty joy.
That's why our little friends do not bother to give us a direct word. A direct word is better than a simple lie. It is very easy to arrange a word into a poem in Georgian. We do not think that any other language is easy to do. And the verse does not mean that the ends of the word are joined together. Poetry is the son of poetry. What is poetry, Vera man can not explain it to you, even the speaker will be deceived and invented. Poetry is tangible and not familiar. We only know its impact. We know that he delights in us and in our afflictions. We know that it is an icon of our senses, our hearts, our thoughts, our galls, our guts, in a word, the visible and not the visible. We know that the man who is fascinated by him "forgets the sadness", his kidnapped "heart-man seeks the station beyond the sky, Zena is in the abode", as our famous poet N. says. Baratashvili. We know all this, and what poetry is - no one even knows it, poetry is a strange grace, and the poet is a man endowed with this grace.
Grace is grace, but it also needs to be nurtured, nurtured, nurtured, nurtured and nurtured, if that is to be said. It is such a beautiful, beautiful flower that soon fades, loses its scent, if the light of science is not in place, if science does not shine its source of immortality and the hand of wisdom does not shine even day by day.
If God's talent for poetry is ungrateful to you, our little friends, do not be in a hurry for the magician to appear. Do not be afraid, he will not hide you anywhere. It will explode in its time like the Ankara spring from the heart of the rock, but do not at first deprive it of such a feeble grace - the fertile breast of science. First you learn and God will guide you on such a good path. First learn, first you buy, then you buy something else. I will tell you more: poetry is a divine endeavor, from the depths of the heart, the bearer of pearls of human senses, the artist is the animator and embodiment of incorporeal thought, thought, feeling, in a word, the movement of man and the soul of the world. This is the spirit of the world - the sea is bottomless, even if it is not in sight, not even inaccessible. For this sea man is the ship, talent - Afra and science - the wheel, the steering wheel. Man will be able to walk on this sea with victory only when he is purified by learning and knowledge "eyes to see the mysteries of heaven and earth, ears to hear the strange voices of the heavens and the earth", hands to signify the majesty of heaven and earth, and to translate language.
Man, Nature, Sky, Country, World, - is one glorious book written in a strange language. Science translates this into unadulterated, unadulterated words, and poetry into images and images. The translation of science must first, as much as possible, be collected in the treasury of the heart, so that then the poet's words can be imprinted, the soul can be implanted, the flesh can be clothed to fascinate, fascinate and amaze man. Unless the poet invites science, empty talent alone cannot translate this book. The sky is not a science, there are no readers of this book either.
"Better not to be a translator, readers dumeno," says one of the old wisdom. At first you, as a student, can not translate until you have completed your studies. That is why I tell you: be silent until then. I recommend this to anyone who wakes up early to write a happy poem. If we are not mistaken in this, it is to assure us that the advice is sincere in both cases. Trust us for this advice from your heartfelt friend, your benefactor.
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